I listened.
Halfway through, she stopped.
“Is this still the same talk?”
I set down my glass.
“The same talk?”
“So it doesn’t start again.”
I looked at her.
She glanced at the paper.
Nadine’s hand tightened around her own napkin.
I moved the price list farther away.
“Ella, conversations with me do not have a charge.”
She looked embarrassed.
“I know you said.”
“You can ask again.”
“Even if you said?”
“Yes.”
She considered that.
Then she returned to the beetle.
I listened to every detail.
Not because listening was penance.
Because my daughter had a story.
And somewhere in my own house, someone had made her believe the length of it might become a debt.
When she finished eating, I asked whether she wanted to call her mother.
Miriam and I had been divorced for three years.
She lived twenty minutes away.
Ella moved between our homes according to an arrangement we usually managed without making her hear the difficult conversations.
Usually was not the same as always.
She had learned that adults sometimes became tense when money, time, and parenting were discussed together.
Seraphina had used that knowledge.
Ella looked at me.
“Will Mom be cross?”
“Not with you.”
“She said Mom wouldn’t understand.”
“Who said?”
Ella lowered her eyes.
I already knew.
I asked no more leading questions.
Instead, I told her we could speak to Miriam together if she wanted.
She nodded.
Her mother answered quickly.
I explained that something had happened and Ella wanted to talk.
Then I handed over the phone.
“Mom?”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Did you give Dad money?”
There was a silence.
I closed my eyes.
Miriam answered carefully.
“For what?”
